


Awful Waffle

by chucksauce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, all-night diner au, waffle house au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:09:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taken from a prompt meme... <i>"Your OTP in an all-night diner."</i></p><p>AKA: John and Sherlock wind up in a Waffle House.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awful Waffle

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt said "All night diner," and for me that means nothing but Waffle House. Just go with me on this.

John tugged at the collar of his button-down. For the first time since Afghanistan, he felt like he was overdressed for mid-September: sweat beaded and rolled down his spine, leaving a tickling, sticky trail behind. It didn’t matter that it was well after midnight; the air was still just as thick and oppressive as it had been when they’d stepped off the plane at midday their first day over. It had been a week and a half of jungle-humid levels of hell, no matter what time of day.  
  
The climate change should have been expected, though, he reasoned. Mycroft had convinced Sherlock to take a case in the southeastern United States, which meant Sherlock had spent the days prior to their departure checking weather patterns. John, who had erroneously assumed his button-downs would suffice for whatever the States could throw at them, envied Sherlock now, who sat huddled in his spot for this stake-out in a pair of decent, dark-wash jeans and a thin royal blue v-neck tee. The change in attire for the case and climate made him look about five years younger, and not for the first time, John had noticed he’d been having trouble keeping his eyes off his flatmate.  
  
“All right,” Sherlock murmured from his perch. “Here she comes, John. You’re ready?”  


 

* * *

  
  
After the case, both of them were far too wired to return to their hotel room, and found themselves directed to a 24-hour diner called The Waffle House. John eyed the squat little establishment dubiously, but Sherlock plowed ahead full speed, ducking into the restaurant and swinging left toward a free booth before John had gotten halfway across the parking lot.  
  
The jangle of twangy country music spilled from a jukebox and the rich stink of fried food and stale cigarette smoke hit him as soon as he entered; a sign posted at the register directly in front of him directed smoking patrons to the left, non-smokers to the right.* Harsh, yellowy light did nothing flattering for the stainless steel countertops, the walls yellowed with age, the dull brown squares of terra-cotta tile on the floor. He wrinkled his nose, shook his head, and turned to find Sherlock.  
  
Along the left-hand side of the tiny restaurant there were three booth-tables before the seating wrapped around the open kitchen area; Sherlock had picked the middle of the three booths along the window at the far end. Thankfully Sherlock hadn’t caved and lit his own cigarette, but their booth was woefully close to a tiny bar opposite, where an off-duty waitress had recently lit up.  
  
John sighed and resigned himself to a simple cup of coffee, his appetite officially put off. It was probably for the best, considering how late it was. Would a diner this shabby have something as sophisticated as decaf?  
  
Sherlock was already poring over the menu when John sat down, which surprised him. Out of curiosity, he grabbed the other laminated mat-like menu and gave it a once-over. Beyond the eponymous waffles, there were such gems as “Bert’s Chili,” and “Alice’s Iced Tea.” (Iced tea, of course, had been one of the more blatant culture-shocks they’d suffered since coming to the region--the stuff they served here was more like cheap, cold, tea-flavoured syrup-water, over-brewed and left to sit until it had brushed elbows with rancid in a rather unflattering way.) Good lord, they even served t-bone steak and eggs.  
  
John’s stomach turned at the thought of that much grease and heavy meat in one sitting.  
  
A squat, far-side of middle-aged woman named Connie** shuffled over to their table and offered them a weathered but bright smile. “What can I get y’all tonight?”  
  
John glanced over to Sherlock, who was still studying his menu with wolfish fervor.  
  
“Just a decaf coffee, for me,” John answered.  
  
“An’ you, sugar?” Connie asked, turning to Sherlock.  
  
Without looking up from his menu, Sherlock replied, “I’ll have an All-Star. I want the eggs fried over-easy, a plain waffle, hashbrowns chunked, bacon rather than sausage, and brown toast, if you have it.”  
  
“Darlin’ all the toast is brown--that’s what makes it toast,” the waitress chuckled, and offered a wink that looked more like one eye had simply forgotten to blink. “Y’mean, wheat?”  
  
“It’s always something,” Sherlock chided himself as he nodded. “And--a cherry Coke.” The terminal ‘k’ sound was emphasised with one of his charming smiles, and John was struck yet again with how young Sherlock looked lately. It almost distracted him from the utter surprise of hearing Sherlock order that much food at one time on purpose with no motive other than to eat it.  
  
Connie scribbled this all down on her notepad. “Y’all from outta town? We don’t get too many British people out in these parts.”  
  
“We’re on a--” he was about to say case, but the less about that said the better.  
  
Luckily Sherlock caught that thread and finished, “--research trip. John’s researching for a story he’s writing.”  
  
It was close enough to the truth, and John was grateful he didn’t have to scrabble for a lie.  
  
“Well that sounds real nice,” Connie said. John wondered if she was a grandmother, because it was the same tone his own gran had used on him as a child. It wasn’t condescending, just simple and sweet. Despite himself, John found himself liking their waitress. “A’ight, I’ll be right back with yer drinks. Y’all sit tight.”  


 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock’s order had proven to be a stroke of insight on his part--in a fantastic reversal of their usual habits, John found himself picking off of Sherlock’s plate during the course of their late-night meal. Surprisingly, the food was rather good for having all been cooked on the same flat-top grill, which looked like it hadn’t been properly scoured since sometime in the late seventies.  
  
Even the hashbrowns--which Sherlock had doused in what Connie had called “Whats-this-here” (Worcestershire) sauce--were delicious with their chunks of fried ham.  
  
About halfway through, Connie reappeared to refill their drinks, and it wasn’t until John was halfway through his fresh coffee that he realised the taste--which was something bordering on amazing; he certainly wouldn’t have expected cheap diner coffee to taste so well-made--was in fact fully caffeinated.  
  
He stared down into his thick white Waffle House mug, shrugged, and let himself smile before he tossed back another gulp.  
  
And Sherlock, as the food had filled him and the cherry Coke had invigorated him, had turned sideways to stretch his legs along the booth, resting his back against the cool window. He launched into a meandering discussion that was nothing short of entertaining: he deduced the couple up by the register were in fact meth-makers, the table of ladies two booths away were all in college nearby and that one of them had just discovered she was pregnant. A gaggle of very drunk men in Carhartts and workboots who stumbled in were all on their way back from a local gay bar. This bled, uncharacteristically, into a story about Sherlock’s first experience at a gay bar--and being the only one of their number actually hit on by a woman.  
  
As his laughter died down, John frowned thoughtfully.  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked, and dabbed at his mouth, where he’d just been stuffing the pentultimate bite of his syrup-soaked waffle.  
  
“Nothing, just the way you said that, is all. You said you were the only one, as if it were ironic.” Something about the coffee, or the weird role reversal that had been slowly creeping upon them in their time in the U.S., galvanized John’s brain, and he felt a Sherlock-worthy deduction building in his skull. “You wouldn’t point out that kind of irony if either you were attracted to women and it was well-received, or if in fact you weren’t the only one in your group not attracted to women.”  
  
Sherlock lifted his brows enigmatically, somewhat subdued. His not-smirk was nearly Mycroftian levels of mysterious. “I’ll leave you to your deductions.”  
  
But from there the conversation had rolled onward without a hitch, and John was content to let the matter drop for now, to think on what Sherlock had said. At one point, the novelty of the digital jukebox--anachronistically modern in the run-down old diner--became too much. John wandered over to it and dropped a few songs’ worth of quarters into the machine. Motown filled the diner, and John bobbed his head as he walked back to his seat.  
  
A few minutes later, Sherlock stood abruptly. John slid out of his booth to join him, but Sherlock shook his head. “Just a moment. I’m going to plug my phone into the car and use the toilet. Not quite ready to leave yet.”  
  
John nodded and sat, and tried not to think of how long they’d already occupied this booth--it was bordering on two hours, at least.  
  
Connie came by shortly after that to offer more coffee, and John apologised for monopolising the table.  
  
“Ain’t a problem. Usually dies down after three anyhow. Y’all need aything else t’eat, or we in for an all-nighter?” Her smile was genuine, as if this were a fairly common practice on a Tuesday night. There was another trio at the other end of the diner all arranged similarly, legs stretched out along the bench, a girl reclining against her seatmate. John figured maybe it was a fairly frequent occurrence.  
  
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be headed back to the hotel soon. But I’ll have a bit more coffee, I think.”  
  
Connie wink-blinked at him again as she tipped the carafe over his mug. Then her voice dropped to conspiratorial levels. “I hope y’don’t think I’m bein’ rude, but I’s wonderin’ if you’n that other fella were here... t’gether, y’know? If yer not, I don’t mean any disrespect, just... I know you’re outta-towners. Ya gotta be careful ‘bout that around here.” Her brows drew together. “No offense.”  
  
John found himself simultaneously touched that she would offer that level of concern as well as dismayed at the necessity for such a warning. He offered a her a smile that didn’t do much to conceal either emotion, rather than his usual denial.  
  
Connie patted his hand and scooped up Sherlock’s empty cherry Coke before bustling off to refill it.  


 

* * *

  
  
“What about you, then?” Sherlock asked after he’d returned and they’d sat in the booth for a few minutes, regaining the momentum Sherlock had previously interrupted. “What was uni like for you?”  
  
“Asking, rather than telling me?” John deflected, surprised. “Not much to tell. I wasn’t terribly adventurous.”  
  
Sherlock gave him a dubious eyebrow raise before taking another swig of cherry Coke. He slid two of the unused creamer packs across the table toward him, and lined them up before balancing a third atop them. “First, I’ve heard that this is how one goes about friendly conversation. I’m not averse to hearing your take on the matter--you’re a good storyteller, John.”  
  
John blinked, somewhat surprised. Was that a compliment without any sarcasm?  
  
“Second, you were born adventurous. You’re pants at lying.” Now Sherlock added another creamer pack to the base and slid the top one to balance atop the three.  
  
“Or so I’ve led you to believe,” John retorted with a chuckle.  
  
Sherlock gave him his best scrupulous deadpan as he balanced his unused spoon across the topmost creamer pack. “You play a deep game, John Watson.”  
  
Maybe it was the coffee, or the sleep deprivation, or the diner-air rotting his brain, but he let loose a hearty giggle that Sherlock joined in. “Uni was... it was boring. Unbearably boring. I didn’t really come out of my shell until my army days, if you’d believe. I dated around a bit, had one serious relationship, and spent my time studying my arse off.”  
  
“Relationship?” Sherlock tilted his head at that. Then his eyes darted over John’s face, and John could almost see the wheels turning. “Your last two years of medical school, but she wasn’t thrilled when you wanted to go into service.”  
  
“Close,” John said.  
  
“You broke up before that conversation came up? She cheated on you.” Sherlock looked back down to his little tower, and added his fork crossways atop the spoon.  
  
“You’re getting colder. And what are you doing?”  
  
“It’s a game. She wanted a family, and you didn’t.”  
  
“Now you’re just guessing. That thing’s going to fall any second now.”  
  
Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, and John couldn’t help but smile to see the way Sherlock fought against the urge to deny being called on his bullshit. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, picked up another creamer pack, and gingerly placed it upside-down on top of the fork where it intersected with the spoon. Just as he was releasing it, John finally answered.  
  
“We broke up because his parents found out about us, and that didn’t go over so well.”  
  
Sherlock’s head jerked up, and the sudden motion caused his thumb to catch the edge of the spoon and send the tower toppling. The fork and spoon clattered loudly against the laminated tabletop, and one of the creamer packs fell on the floor. John didn’t hide his amusement at Sherlock’s failure at engineering.  
  
“It’s always something,” Sherlock muttered as he studied John like he’d never properly seen him before.  


 

* * *

  
  
“In the end, he came back home, and they worked things out. But it took quite a while for things to feel somewhat normal again. I don’t think Mycroft ever really forgave him, or me for saying it all aloud,” Sherlock surmised. This was sometime later, when the conversation had veered into territory it had never done before.  
  
John smiled softly, his chin propped on his fist. Sherlock never opened up about his childhood--John had only a few bare images to assign, all gleaned from Mycroft. But tonight found Sherlock in a surprisingly open and talkative mood. He could truly picture a young Sherlock, the deduction his father’s affair still ringing in the air above the otherwise silent dinner table. Poor kid, John thought.  
  
“That was when we got Red Beard--my father had a way of offering his affection in the form of service or else gifts.”  
  
“Ah,” John said quietly, not really sure what Red Beard was.  
  
“But a few years later he got loose, set off for the road. An oncoming car crushed his hips, and I had to put down the only friend I’d ever made besides Mycroft.”  
  
Sherlock looked down at his mug--he’d abandoned soda and requested coffee instead. Steam swirled up lazily. Across the diner the clatter of plates jarred the stillness, such as it was. A lone early-bird wandered in and Connie scuttled over to greet him.  
  
John breathed in a deep lungful of coffee and bacon-scent, the languor of comfort and sleep deprivation and some unnameable tenderness for Sherlock settling deep into his bones. He offered Sherlock a small smile, scratched his head, and simply said, “Yeah, sometimes it’s hard. But look at you now.”  
  
Sherlock huffed, a tired smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “I suppose.”  


 

* * *

  
  
“Christ almighty, I can’t believe the bloody sun is coming up,” John giggled an hour later as he glanced out the window. Across the parking lot and the sparse stretch of woods beyond, the first yellow-grey bands of sunlight silhouetted the leafy branches. He rotated his wrists and ankles, wiggled his fingers and toes. He wasn’t surprised to find that most of his body had gone stiff while they’d occupied their booth. “We should get going, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, eyes as bloodshot as John’s own were. John could feel the sting that only abated when he blinked. His muscles were jittery putty, that odd feeling that only happened when he and Sherlock pulled all-nighters for a case. It was nigh unto time for them to get back to the hotel and just crash.  
  
Luckily theirs was only a walk across the parking lot.  
  
Sherlock gathered their ticket, which he took to the register to pay while John dropped a tenner on the table--surely that would cover the use of the booth over the long and largely customerless hours they’d occupied that space. It was a bit of a novelty to him, but he’d seen enough other tables with a few ones tucked under the edge of a plate when other customers had left, and assumed it was only appropriate.  
  
Outside, a slight chill had permeated the predawn air, the first John had felt since they’d arrived. It was glorious. A few birds had begun their song, a distant whistling twitter that struck John as slightly surreal.  
  
“The go-to-sleep birds are singing to us, Sherlock,” he said as they started off for their hotel.  
  
Sherlock snickered but offered no reply, merely kept pace with him as they meandered across the parking lot toward the rising sun.  
  
“Sorry I kept you up all night, John,” Sherlock offered, his shoulder brushing John’s.  
  
John shifted his weight closer, until the back of his hand brushed Sherlock’s, whose fingers, still warm from that last cup of coffee, curled around his. John allowed himself a small smile before he answered. “It’s all fine. I think I actually enjoyed The Waffle House.”

**Author's Note:**

> * This is slowly but surely changing. At least in SC. A majority of the WaHos here are converting to non-smoking establishments as city ordinances tighten down. Yaaaay!
> 
> **Connie (also known as Super-Connie) is the real deal. She's worked at the WaHo in my hometown since FOREVER. She don't take no shit, but she's sweeter than their sweet tea. Which is saying something. So I felt like she needed to be immortalized in a fanfic about Consulting Husbands. Naturally.
> 
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> 
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